Page 18 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)

Chapter Twelve

“ I wanted to order you a drink before you arrived, but I now believe I might have to order you several.”

Charles shifted his gaze, unimpressed and unamused, to Levi, who only smirked at him.

“I am fine,” he told him. “One will do. One, for the duration of this conversation.”

“I see.” Levi chuckled. “I am on a time limit. Is your wife keeping you so busy now?”

Charles ignored him and took his seat.

Around them, the Wayside Inn was not too busy at such an hour, especially with dusk hanging over the sky. Too many would be hurrying home to start work at dawn in Fernsham, the village over from Branmere.

Levi was dressed more casually in a shirt and breeches, but Charles maintained his usual full outfit. He only forwent formalities when he worked in his study, but otherwise, they continued to be his armor.

“Oh, come on,” Levi pressed. “You must tell me about her! She was very lovely when I spoke with her after your wedding. I dare say it ought to happen again.”

“I dare say it ought not to.” Charles nodded to the bartender, signaling for two drinks to be brought to their table.

They frequented the inn often, for Fernsham was a perfect place for the two to meet between business in London and other matters at their respective country estates.

“I am certain your wife will want to invite me for dinner.” Levi pulled a face, as if he wouldn’t believe anything Charles said anyway. “I am interested in getting to know more about her.”

And I am interested in seeing less of her .

It had been a week since the clover incident, and Charles had found it difficult to approach either Hermia or Phoebe. Phoebe, who teared up whenever she saw him, even when he tried to show her that he had pressed the clover into a small, glass box.

“That is not where my interest lies,” he muttered.

He was aware of his friend’s eyes on him, silently questioning, while their drinks were placed down before them.

Once the server retreated, he was left to sip his drink and hope it would slow his racing mind.

“Mine lies in my daughter. She is… I do not—God, I cannot even describe it properly.”

“Phoebe will be Phoebe,” Levi said, as if it were so simple. “She is the furious wind that sets a forest aflutter. She scatters leaves and delights in their lack of formation once she is done.”

Much like Hermia .

Before Charles could shut down that thought, Levi caught him.

“You think the same of the Duchess,” he guessed.

Charles hated that he was so transparent. He said nothing, gave no indication of agreeing or disagreeing.

“She has sent your forest aflutter, I dare say, Charles.”

Charles shot him a glare. “As I said, my interest lies in my daughter.”

“And mine strays to your wife, for I see the space she occupies in your mind. It is fate, is it not? You met a woman—a mysterious beauty that has never left your mind—only for her to become your wife. Whatever are you waiting for, Charles? What are you afraid of? You dreamed of finding her for weeks, months , after that party. You have finally found her. No, not only that, but now she is your Duchess. Why are you avoiding her now? What has changed?”

The question was not one Charles was ready for, but he gave it a moment of thought.

“You know that nothing has changed,” he replied. “I allowed myself one night of pleasure, and that is all it was. I made that promise to myself, and I will keep it.”

“But why just one night? You have nothing to lose anymore, Charles! She is your wife now. Your reputations are no longer at risk.”

“Yes, but the painting remains,” he muttered. “It still looks scandalous.”

“Everything looks scandalous when the blasted ton wants a salacious story,” Levi mumbled, rolling his eyes as he drank deeply.

Then, he shook his head. “Fine, have it your way. But do not think I cannot see your heart’s wounds on your face.

I see how holding yourself back from her is draining you.

I do hope you are enjoying your sleepless nights, my friend, for it seems you have signed yourself up for a lifetime of them if you will not bed your wife. ”

“ Levi ,” Charles hissed.

“I am only saying what you should have been hearing for a while now. I am telling you because you will not allow anybody else to say it. Honestly, I am not certain you have anybody else to tell you?—”

“Oh, you tread a very thin line.”

“I know, and while you still allow me to tread it, I will speak my mind. Approach her, Charles. You might find yourself pleasantly surprised.”

“I have my daughter to consider.”

“And? Forgive my nonchalance, but the Duchess is already living around Phoebe. I do not see a great deal changing if you were to bed your wife.”

The change will be that I cannot afford such distractions .

Charles took a swig of his drink.

Levi would know by the silence to finally stop pushing.

Regardless of whether the advice came or not, his friend had truly figured him out—Hermia had taken up far too much space in his mind, and no amount of painting was giving him the release he needed.

That same evening, Charles returned to Branmere Hall, strangely feeling not himself.

Both nervous and filled with dread, he stepped into the entrance hall, intending to head straight to his study. He had expedited the contract that had been ruined by the ink spill, and he needed to finish reading the terms and have it signed and mailed back.

As he made his way down the hall, he caught the light flickering in the parlor.

Walk on, Charles . Do not be tempted, for you know full well who is in there.

But how could he ignore the urge to enter a room in his own home? How could he ignore the desire when it coiled in his stomach and made his heart pound?

Get a hold of yourself, for Heaven’s sake.

He walked into the parlor and found Hermia curled up on the plush armchair he had definitely not noticed her favoring. Her nightgown covered her to her ankles, yet it left so much of her neck bare. He then noticed the color—champagne.

His mouth went dry.

Her head was bent, her eyes trained on a book in her lap. She had to know he had entered, but she said nothing, so he went right back?—

“You missed dinner,” Hermia said. “Again.”

Charles froze two paces away from the door. He could simply feign ignorance, pretend that he had not heard her, and hurry out of the parlor, but then her eyes rose to him.

He should have looked away.

Heavens , he should have looked away, but those ocean-blue eyes met his, and he felt the floor move beneath his feet.

Something that should have been poured on canvas through paint and gritted teeth and all the hours he had spent locked in his studio, hoping nobody intruded.

Yet there she was, infuriating, beautiful, giving him a look that made him want to go down on his knees as he had the night they met.

Charles tamped down every lustful urge and straightened up. Composure was a performance he knew like the back of his hand, and he would be damned if he did not use it now.

“I was out,” he said calmly.

“I would rather you had been here.”

“And I would rather you stop presuming you can give me orders.”

“I did not give you an order,” she countered. “Although if I had, perhaps you would have returned for dinner.”

Her audacity caught him off guard, and he gritted his teeth.

How was it that this woman had every tool in her arsenal to upend him?

He despised it.

He despised how her brown curls tumbled over her shoulders, as elegant as during the day, yet somehow more relaxed and prettier for it.

He despised how some of her curls rested so perfectly on her chest, as if purposefully drawing his attention there.

He fought to keep himself in check.

Hermia gazed back at him. “I do not give you orders because I know you will not follow them, and who am I to command you?”

“Who, indeed,” he agreed tightly. “I am the master of this house.”

“And I am the Duchess,” she said, rising to her feet. Her book was very smoothly closed and put aside. “One of my duties is to have a nice dinner prepared for us as a family.”

“A family.” He almost spat out the word. He hated himself for the bitterness, so he swallowed the venom that threatened to bleed into his voice. “Is that what we are?”

“I am your wife,” she answered harshly, “and you brought me here to mother your child. So yes . To me, that does make us a family. I miss my own—the very least you can do is turn up for dinner.”

Charles clenched his jaw. “I was out with Lord Trewford, if you must know. He can speak for hours on end at the best of times. Give him brandy, and it is nearly impossible to get him to shut up. How was I supposed to know you had planned another family dinner?”

“Because that is how it should be!” Hermia snapped, drawing too near.

Charles took a step back, but she followed him.

“Because we are a family ,” she added, her voice quieter. “Because I was brought here to be your wife, and a wife should not be served dinner alone in her chamber.”

“Excuse me for saving you from exile,” Charles snapped back. “I work long hours, Duchess. You know this.”

“Except I do not! I know so little about you, yet you expect me to know it all. You expect Phoebe and I to understand and have patience, but you show us so little of it in return, and it is—it is infuriating !”

Suddenly, the parlor door slammed shut.

Charles whirled around, their argument momentarily forgotten, as he went to open it.

Had a draft somehow ? —

“I will not open this door until the two of you become friends,” Phoebe shouted from the other side of the door.

Charles gripped the knob and turned it, but the door was locked and would not budge.

“ Phoebe ,” he bit out, “open the door this instant.”

“Hmm. No!”

And then came a clamor of raised voices and hurried footsteps echoing through the corridor.

“Lady Phoebe!” Mrs. Nightgale shouted. “Come back this instant! This is not how a young lady behaves!”

“You must calm yourself, child!” the butler called after her. “You cannot simply lock His Grace and Her Grace in?—”